Meagan and the Dirty Angels
by Solanio
Summary: When Roger goes to his best friend's funeral, he discovers the angels have a plan for his friend's daughter; and Roger is that plan.
1. Prelude

_The theme is angels in the World of Darkness as a variant. It's part of an ongoing chronicle at my web site (see profile) using a shared character. If you would like to contribute to this chronicle, please stop by. Otherwise, any helpful hints and critques are most appreciated. - Cheers, Sol._

**Prelude**

Meagan liked the ball. It's shiny plastic stripes made interesting swirls as she tossed it up the stairs, and let it bounce back down to her. It was softer than her other balls and she could grab this one better. Big people looked at her as they came by. Any time, she expected that they would come take the ball away. But they did not. Her Mommy was in the smelly room. Meagan didn't like it there. Not only did it stink, it was dark; and the flowers there made her sneeze. Mister O'Rourke came in from seeing Daddy's box. His eyes were red and puffy, like Mommy's. But his were different. He wasn't pretend hurting. But he was like all the other big people that day. He just patted her on the head and went upstairs to where all the big people were standing, talking in soft voices, like they were at church. Mommy had already gone up. She'd had been alone by Daddy's box and when other people weren't looking, she had stopped her pretend crying. Meagan knew that Mommy had really cried, but that it was pretend anyway. She knew it and sort of admired how her Mommy could do it so well. Mommy had taken a drink from a bottle in her purse when no one but Meagan was around. She had seen Meagan staring at her and she yelled at Meagan. She told her she was a bad girl because she didn't cry. Meagan thought this was silly and went to walk away. Then Mommy had tried to take the ball but Meagan let out such a yell, that other big people had come looking over the railing. Mommy let go and just walked up the stairs. But the mean look in her eyes, it made Meagan scared a bit. So she tried to forget and she played some more with her ball.

"Well, how's my angel today, eh?"

Meagan smiled and looked up at her Uncle Roger. He wasn't her real uncle, just the grocer she and her Daddy used to visit when they were buying fruit or vegetables. Sometimes they played cards at Uncle Roger's house. He was a nice man and Meagan liked him.

But he was in error, and she felt she had to let him know. "I'm not an angel." She said this while continuing to play with her ball.

"Oh, of course you're an angel. Believe me, I know. I've seen plenty and you're the prettiest angel I've ever seen."

Roger's statement seemed to confuse Meagan a bit. She stopped bouncing her ball, glanced back at the viewing room and then started back again with her game. But her look was puzzled, as if she were working out some dilemma.

"But I'm not an angel, Uncle Roger." She smiled at him, a face full of innocence, framed in red curls.

Roger tried to smile, but it came out weakly. He brought out a handkerchief and held it to his quivering mouth. His hands trembled a bit. They never were the same since he had come back from Korea.

"Oh, maybe you're right. But I thought surely you must be an angel. I know your Da always thought you were his angel."

Meagan glanced back at the viewing room. She shook her head and wrinkled her nose, as if she did not like this idea.

Roger was worried about her. She hadn't cried, according to all who'd been with her. Even now, she seemed oblivious to the severity of her situation.

"The innocence of the lambs," Roger muttered.

"Daddy's talking to an angel."

"I'm sure he is," Roger told her. "I'm sure he is. If ever there was a man destined to sit with the angels and the Lord, it was your Da."

"He's not sitting. He's standing. And I think he and the angel are arguing."

"Oh, is that so?" Roger smiled. The girl's fantasy would have been engaging, were it not for the circumstances. But as it was, it just reminded Roger that she was due for a rude shock when she discovered that her father was not coming home again.

"Tell you what, Meagan, how about you come with me while I go say good-bye to your Da, eh? Will you keep my company?"

Of course, what Roger really wanted was for Meagan to say her good-byes, maybe even shed a tear, which was only natural. It bothered him that she had not cried yet. He felt she was in for a hard time if she didn't come to it sooner than later.

Roger led her into the now empty viewing room. The casket with its white lining lay at the opposite end of a number of angled pews. The parlour was a cheap place, old and musty, not helped by the profuse amounts of lilies that filled the small room.

Roger led Meagan up to the casket and picked her up. He stared down at the waxen face, stiff and cheaply painted in a mockery of life. A very bad paste job had filled in the holes in the cheek and forehead where bullets had fractured the face. It was a cruel thing to show a child, but Roger believed that if Meagan did not accept her father's death, that it would haunt her later in life.

"Look at him. I shall miss him so. I expect you'll miss him even more, won't you, Meagan."

But Meagan wasn't looking down at her father's body. She was straining her head to look over Roger's shoulder.

Poor dear, he thought. She can't bear to see him like this. And I can't say I blame her. Roger put her down, feeling ashamed of having tried for force Meagan to accept this terrible vision.

Roger felt a tug on his slacks. Meagan was pointing to a dark corner of the room.

"If you want to say good-bye to Daddy, he's over there Uncle Roger."

Roger glanced into the corner. Of course there was nothing there, except dust and perhaps the hopeful imagining of a poor lost child.

"Ah, yes, I see." Roger nodded. "Well, shall we go over and say our good-byes then?"

"You'd better wait until Daddy and the angel have stopped."

A sour expression came over Meagan's face so suddenly, Roger couldn't help but to ask, "Meagan, what's the matter?"

"That angel, he uses very bad words. If I used words like that... I don't think Daddy likes his angel."

"What's the angel saying?" Roger asked her. He supposed humouring her at this point couldn't do her any harm.

Meagan listened for a bit. "He's saying that Daddy was a stupid mother-fucker for encoorjing me to see angels." Before Roger could comment on the expletive, she turned to him and asked, "What's encoorjing mean?"

Roger was dumbstruck. "Where did you learn that terrible word, Meagan?!" You must promise me to never say that word - ever!"

"It's not my word!" Meagan protested. "That angel, he talks like that all the time. He's a very dirty angel." Meagan nodded as she whispered this, as if imparting a deep secret. She stopped to listen and added, "He says that if the dark ones finds out, I will be taken." She puzzled this out. "What does he mean? Who are the dark ones? Does he mean Mrs Jones. She's a negro. She's very nice. She gives me cookies whenever I go to her store."

Roger nearly dropped Meagan. The first horrible thought that came to his mind was that the girl was possessed. Roger crossed himself and drove the thought from his mind.

"Dear, Meagan. You've got to stop this kind of language. You're in a church for Christ's..." Roger bit his lip.

"You've been hanging around with the wrong crowd, that's for sure. Those are very bad words you used just now, very bad."

"They're not my words," Meagan calmly told him again. "I told you, that dirty angel. He talks that bad way all the time. It always makes Daddy mad. Daddy tells him to stop but the angel says that Daddy is a butt-banging idiot. He says..."

Roger clamped his hand over Meagan's mouth. He glanced around to see if anyone had overheard.

"Shhhsssh. What has gotten into you. I never did hear words like that coming from you before. I think you were right, young lady. You are indeed no angel."

Meagan looked relieved.

"Promise not to say those words no more?"

Meagan nodded. When Roger moved his hand, she added, "I promise."

Roger was perspiring so he took out a handkerchief and dabbed his sweating forehead. Meagan was looking up at the corner. Then she looked back at Roger.

"Uncle Roger, Daddy wants me to tell you something."

"Oh, and what'd that be, Dearie?"

Meagan listened for a bit and then nodded.

"Daddy says that I should tell you that you are a real good friend and that Daddy.., Daddy says he appeeshates you."

Roger didn't really believe Meagan was talking to her dead father. But still, hearing the words, Roger's eyes began to tear and he turned away lest the child see him cry.

"Daddy says to tell you he's sorry but that the angel has fucked things up and it might be too late for you. He says you're in danger now."

Roger blinked, and he wiped his eyes. He turned back to the little girl.

"What was that you said, Meagan?"

Meagan put her hand in front of her mouth and spoke through her fingers. "Sorry, Uncle Roger. Daddy said the 'F' word, not me."

But the colourful language wasn't what had caught Roger's ear. It was a nonsense statement, but the hair started to rise on the back of his neck. He tried to swallow but his throat had gone dry.

Hoarsely, all he could croak out was a guilty question, guilty for the silliness of his playing along with Meagan's distasteful game. "What does your Da say about us being in danger?"

Meagan glanced back at the corner. Her eyes tracked along as if following an invisible walker, and finally came to glance just behind where Roger was kneeling down. Roger's eyes moved to his left, straining to see something. He felt a strong chill and dared not move.

Meagan concentrated, as if listening. Then she nodded. The other-worldly look in her eyes, the blue vacant stare, like deep water, was murky and clouded.

"Daddy says that he hid something with a friend. You need to go down to _The Swede's_. The bartender, Lou, he has a bag. Tell him you've come to claim it for Daddy and when Lou gives it to you, don't go back home. Never go back home. There are... things waiting there for you now. They know you were Daddy's friend and they think you have it. Go straight to the bus station and hide yourself - and me."

Meagan's eyes brightened up. "Daddy says I'm to go with you!"

"Wha..?" Roger blinked his eyes. "This is ridiculous. I can't believe I'm listening to this nonsense. Me run off witch a little girl. They'd rightly string me up for being a child stealer were I ta do such a thing."

A heavy thump nearly stopped Roger's heart. He looked behind him. The casket lid had slammed shut.

* * *

"Oh, my poor babe, what will become of us?"

Marjorie O'Neill sobbed and carefully tabbed a dry silk handkerchief at her eyes. She wore an almost tasteful black hat of the latest style found in the back adds for movie magazines. Father McElheney offered her a sympathetic shoulder and the Ladies' Choir was all around her. Casting her eyes over the wash of black, Meagan could see the interested eyes of Patrick Duggan and Leslie Dunne looking over at her. Now with poor Thomas destined for the boneyard, his widow was in sore need of comfort which each of them, unknowing of the other, felt it was his particular duty to proffer.

Marjorie offered a thin quick half-smile to each and then went back to gathering all of the offers of sympathy and support. She spied Roger Collins coming upstairs with Meagan. Smiling in turn at Patrick and Leslie, she carefully made her way leisurely through the small crowd of sympathizers and laid a white wispy hand on Roger's tweed jacket.

"Mister Collins. I wonder if I could prevail on you for a favor. Do you think you and your wife can look after poor Meagan tonight? I know Tom thought you his dearest friend. I just don't think that I'm in condition to attend to her the way she needs right now."

"Wilma left me three years ago," Roger reminded her.

"Oh..." Marge just smiled. "That's right."

"Of course," Roger sighed. "I'll bring her back to you tomorrow morning then?"

"Thank you" Marge mouthed silently. Then she quietly but quickly added as an afterthought, "Not too early.".

With a look that said she would not brook no for an answer, a tight lipped Marge kneeled down to face her daughter. "Meagan, you're going to stay with Uncle Roger and Aunt Wilma tonight."

Roger winced at this mention of his wife's name, despite what he'd just been forced to remind everyone of.

"Now, you're going to be a good little girl for Mommy, aren't you."

"Yes, Mommy." Despite Marge's early harshness to her, Meagan seemed very distressed but resigned at the same time.

Marge offered Tom a generous smile and made her way back through the crowd. Roger could still pick her voice out over the noise of the gathering.

"Give me a ride home, won't you Pat?"

* * *

"We'll be at my place soon," Roger told Meagan. It was a lie. Traffic had then going at a crawl when they were going at all. It was early rush hour on a Friday afternoon. "What do you want for dinner? How about some spaghetti? Or, how about Chinese? You like fortune cookies?"

He figured he'd better feed her. Nothing was more cantankerous than a hungry kid. He wondered how his kids were doing. He hadn't seen them since Wilma left him. Thinking about his boys used to tear him up inside but he let it go long ago, leaving only that lumpy slow burn like a coal ember that lasts long into the darkness.

"I like Chinese," Meagan told him.

Roger settled into his seat, trying to think if he knew any Chinese restaurants nearby. Anything would beat sitting in traffic. Deafening horns honked around them, not that they had much effect to part traffic.

"Are we going to go to see Lou, Uncle Roger? Daddy told you to, Meagan shouted, holding her hands over her ears because of the horns."

"Not today, Meagan. I'm not going to take you to a bar, " Frank shouted back.

"But..."

"Yeah, I know. Your Da, he told you. Alright, dearie. Don't take it so to heart. I just don't need that kind of place right now. Don't get me wrong. I certainly would want a drink right now. But Uncle Roger hasn't gone into a bar for a three years now and I don't plan to start in anytime soon."

Meagan glanced up at the window and scowled. She shook her head, looking very cross.

"Who are you...?" Roger stopped when the car gave a lurch.

There was a dull popping sound. The car bounced, bounced once more, and then black smoke came out of the engine. Roger quickly turned off the motor and jumped out. He opened the hood and waved his hands to help the smoke dissipate.

Shaking his head, he came back. "I'm afraid the engine has something wrong with it. I'll have to call a tow truck. Meagan, you wait here in the car. I'll be right back as soon as I make a phone call."

A tow truck drove up.

"Problem, Mac?"

Roger blinked. "Well, Mother Mary! Where did you come from?"

The driver hopped out, blocking traffic in his lane. After a couple of obscene gestures at the horn honkers behind him, which Roger hoped Meagan had missed, the driver came over to Roger's engine to take a look.

He shook his head. "No oil. Your cylinders are fucked. Your engine will need to be rebuilt." He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Hey, tell you what. I know a mechanic nearby. He'll fix you up right. You can even have dinner at a Chinese restaurant next door while he works on it. How about it?"

Roger blinked. This sounded too good to be true. A job like the one the driver was describing would take time. "That's the pretty strange coincidence. But I'll pass, if you don't mind. Can you take me to my mechanic? He's in South Boston."

"In this traffic? No can do, Mac. Gotta get home myself. It's the local guy or you can wait for the next tow."

Roger looked at Meagan, who was shaking her head."

But the driver proffered his service at such a reasonable price, Roger's frugality led him into agreement. And the man didn't lie. With Roger and Meagan, who sat in the front scowling, the driver zipped through traffic, employing some dubious scare tactics which drove some cars up on the sidewalk. In this adventurous fashion, it was a short drive through to an alley that Roger was unfamiliar with. The streets seemed near empty.

Traffic doesn't seem so bad after all, Roger thought.

The tow driver zipped them into a large clean garage. A young man with red hair came out from back, wiping his hands on a blue towel. He smiled and Roger couldn't help thinking that his teeth were too large, like a horse's.

Meagan, being shy, ducked behind Roger. The young man was looking at her, smiling. He turned to Roger and smiled even wider. Not even looking at Roger's car, "Fix ''er right up for you."

Again, the price quoted was reasonable, and the promise was that the work would be done in an hour. Roger didn't believe him, and thought that maybe this had all been a scam of some sort. But he had time enough for dinner now and he could sort the rest out later. The tow truck, meanwhile, zipped off so Roger really had no choice.

He escorted Meagan next door. He'd noted also that the tow truck driver had stated the truth. A brightly lit, garish red Chinese restaurant stood just next to the garage. The aroma of spiced oils and deep fried wonders leaked from the open windows.

Roger felt a chill. Not only for fear of booze, but the coincidences were stacking up much too neatly, much too fast. It was like that Serling show, where strange things happened to decent folk like Roger. Somehow, he always wondered if those stories weren't true, and here he was, walking through the..."

"Twilight."

Roger jumped, coming back to his thoughts. A man in a fine worsted grey suit, crowned with a fine felt hat of the same colour stared at him with twinkling blue eyes. He carried a tray of cheap toys and wore expensive white shoes. He didn't look like the average street vendor.

"It's twilight already. My favorite time of the day. It doesn't seem so hot anymore now, does it."

Roger, strangely for the first time, noticed that the heat had gone. It was mild, and a faint breeze was in the air, smelling nothing if not of rose water.

"Can I sell you something, sir?" The man who Roger had not seen standing there raised his bowler and bowed to Meagan, who only scowled disapprovingly back.

The man's tie and suit were outdated, seriously so. But they were pristine, having been kept in immaculate condition. The man stepped forward in front of Roger.

"How a lovely little music box? Something pretty for your daughter? I think she would like a music box, don't you?"

"No thank you," Roger said curtly. He tried to step around the man, but the man appeared in front of him once more.

"Excuse me, but you're standing in my way."

The man only smiled and adjusted a white carnation in his jacket. He plucked it out and put it in Roger's lapel. For some reason, Roger let him, watching as if it were being done to someone else.

"I really think you should buy the music box. It has such a lovely tune. And your daughter could really use some cheering up, don't you think?"

Roger came to his senses and tried to pluck the flower free, but his finger was pricked by a thorn. But when did carnations have thorns? "She's not my daughter. If you will excuse us."

When Roger stepped around him, towing Meagan protectively behind him, the man added, "Oh, but she is now, Mister Collins."

Roger decided it was best to ignore him. If he started to think about what was going on, he might start to get really scared. And he couldn't get scared like that with Meagan around. He turned to go into the restaurant. Maybe they had a back door when it came time to leave.

Roger led Meagan into the empty restaurant. No one was present to seat them, so Roger led Meagan to a booth after helping himself to a couple of menus. An elderly man appeared with a tray of food and began setting it down.

"No, I'm sorry, that's not our order. We haven't ordered yet."

The man smiled, and kept putting food onto the table. Apparently he didn't speak English, Roger decided. There was too much food but try as he might, the man refused to take it back. Another man, a twin to the first, promptly came with drinks, wine and a strong smelling tea, several glasses worth.

"No, I didn't order this," Roger insisted, thinking he wasn't about to pay for all the food being served. He tried not to notice the wine.

"Compliments of the house, Mister Collins," the man smiled. His English was perfect, better than Roger's.

"Wait, how did you know my name?" Roger tried to grab the man's sleeve as he left, but the slippery silk melted through his fingers like water.

The food smelled very good. But everything was too strange. He'd rather call a cab and then come back for his car. "C'mon Meagan, my dear. I think we'd better be leaving."

One of the old men, Roger couldn't tell which, appeared with some fortune cookies.

"For you," he offered Roger a cookie, but when Roger didn't take it, he set the plate down. There were five cookies on the plate.

"I'm hungry," Meagan protested. Being unusually patient for a child, she didn't help herself to any of the food, waiting for Roger to tell her what to do.

Roger decided to wait for the manager to straighten this all out. He didn't touch any food, despite how good it smelled. To pass the time, he cracked open one of the cookies. The cookie broke with a satisfying snap. Inside was glistening white paper which glittered like diamond dust, with red letters like rubies that seemed to glow as if lit from within. Roger thought it was the fanciest cookie fortune he'd ever seen. He read the letters. They were written in that stylized script that Roger mistook for Chinese, but turned out to be English after all.

_You are who you eat._

Roger scowled and cracked open another.

_Your world is a wish away. Give in to desire._

Another

_Wouldn't you like to have Agnes and the boys back?_

That last one made Roger pause. His hands were cold and clammy and his breathing was rapid and shallow. He felt his forehead and noticed he was perspiring. He wanted to leave but he had to open the last two cookies first.

_Did you know she fucked Meagan's father before she took off, didn't you? She did things for him she would never do for you._

Roger's breathing increased. He was near to hyperventilating.

_Riches, comfort, the satisfaction of seeing that bitch suffer while you knock back a case of Irish whiskey with your boys. How does that sound Ő and that's just for starters._

The paper moved by itself, fluttering in his hand. Roger let out a yell and slammed it down on the table. He backed off, farther into his seat, pushing Meagan behind him.

A man in a tailored suit of what looked like red velvet with black trim and a gold brocade vest stepped forward, his white teeth sparkling in the dim gloom of the restaurant. Roger noticed there were other patrons after all, greedily eating their food. The restaurant appeared to be quite crowded after all, though he was certain it had been empty. There was a lot of meat being noisily consumed, from large bones, bloody bones being sucked clean.

"Is there a problem, Mister Collins?"

Roger looked up at the handsome young Asian man in gaudy clothes. He didn't reply

"You should have a drink. Something stronger perhaps?"

He snapped his fingers and the most beautiful woman Roger had ever seen came up bearing a tray. She was tiny and walked in a strange way. Roger noticed she had impossibly small feet. She was like a doll, with porcelain for skin and dark almond eyes. She poured him a double shot of whiskey, setting it before him along with the bottle, Coleraine Single Malt.

"I'm glad we ran into you, Mister Collins. Some associates of ours are waiting for you at home. But we thought we might be able to be more persuasive than they will allow for. Certainly we can both profit if you're a reasonable man. And I think you are."

The woman walked behind him and started to rub his shoulders then backed off, retching.

The owner, presumably, stepped forward as well and then stepped back again, wrinkling his nose and holding his hand up as if to ward off the smell. He was looking at Roger's carnation.

"Perhaps we could start by having you remove that inappropriate flower. Su, bring Mister Collins a nice rose for his jacket. That would do so much better, wouldn't it?"

Roger looked down at the carnation in his lapel, only it wasn't a carnation. Instead, it was an overly large fluted flower with a strong but pleasant perfume. He recognized it as something his wife had grown in the backyard. _Angel's Trumpet_ it was called. Certainly it was not an appropriate flower for his lapel, but Roger liked it. He hadn't smelled one since before Agnes had left him.

"I don't think I want your flower," Roger told him. "C'mon, Meagan darling. We're leaving." He got up and grabbed Meagan's hand.

The woman put her hand on Roger's shoulder and pushed him down. She was amazingly strong, especially given her size. However, Meagan, behaving quite badly, stabbed her hand with a fork. She jerked it back, hissing. Then Roger noticed the hissing was actually a spilled drop of blood burning a nasty hole in his jacket. Glancing at the woman's face, he saw that pain had twisted it into a terrible vision which she quickly hid by averting her gaze.

The young man moved forward. The rest of the restaurant patrons and staff had assembled behind him. They seemed bent on keeping Roger and Meagan from leaving. A thin, tinny tune, Debussey maybe, came out of a small hand-cranked music box that Meagan was turning. The effect it had on everyone in the restaurant, obviously not lovers of classical music, was amazing. They howled and grasped their ears as if in pain. The most unnatural noises were coming out of their throats. Roger grabbed Meagan and rushed outside with her.

The same strange old man was there, waiting for them. Only instead of the bowler, he wore a straw hat and was dressed in white. He seemed to have lost his tray, but he had a dandy long cigarette holder which was propped in his teeth, waving about like a divining rod with a glowing red tip.

Roger looked behind him, thinking he should block the door, but it was locked. The Chinese restaurant was gone. Instead, a modest office, closed for the weekend, presented itself. Roger blinked and pinched himself. The odors that had drawn him seemed just at the edge of his senses, but were fading fast. That strange chill crawled back up his spine and raised every hair on his neck and arms.

But Roger had been in two wars. In the first, he had manned an anti-aircraft gun on a destroyer escort during Leyte. He wasn't about to let the situation get the better of him. He knew now, he was in the..."

"It's like a tee-vee show, isn't it?" The man's "vee" drawled out long and slow.

Roger swallowed. He didn't answer but glanced back to the garage. It wasn't there, just more empty office buildings. However, he noticed that his jacket still had burned holes in it.

"I'm afraid your car is gone. Allow me to call you a cab." The man smiled and before Roger could answer, he whistled and held up his arm.

A black and white cab zipped up out from nowhere and came screeching to a halt. Out of it emerged the largest black man Roger had ever seen. Roger couldn't think how he could have fit into the car. The whiteness of his large teeth shone like sparks, seen as they were against his inky bald face. A tatoo, visible as a grey lightness on the man's enormous triceps, showed a winged sword crossed by an olive branch.

"Cab, Mister?"

Nice tatoo, Roger thought, thinking miserably of the faded purple hula girl hidden under his sleeve.

Looking down the empty street, which was the only thing that still remained from the time they'd arrived, Roger asked the old man, "What happens if I don't get in?"

The man's smile thinned a bit. "If you wish. But _They_ will be very put out, of course. It might make things more difficult in the future. But..." The man leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "You still have free will. If you push the matter, there's nothing They can do. They're not like the other kind, you know. They have stricter rules to follow."

"And _they_ are...?"

"Ask the girl," the man suggested. "She knows all about the situation."

Roger looked at Meagan, as if to see what she wanted to do. She looked up at him and smiled, as if to reassure him. She shrugged matter-of-factly, as if to suggest in that one gesture, that this was the best of some poor choices, maybe. Or was Roger just reading this all into nothing?

"Should we get in, Meagan?"

She nodded. "But we need to go by the _Swede's_ first. Daddy said so, remember."

"Free will. You can go on your own. But then who will take care of Meagan? Her mother is gone, seduced by the promises you didn't avail yourself of. She's promised to trade Meagan for material riches. The poor woman doesn't know this yet, but she will. You are all Meagan has now, Roger."

Roger offered Meagan his hand.

"C'mon darlin, let's get this over with then."

They got into the cab.

story by Solanio


	2. Pit Stop

Meagan's plan was to stop, gas up, grab some food, and then hit the road. She pulled into the Union 76. It was a big stop, well-lit, with plenty of truckers around. She eyed the diner longingly. It was mostly empty but the rusted sign said _Breakfast 24 hours a Day!_ She could really use the coffee. She had been thinking about a motel, but had decided it was too dangerous. She might have lost them, again she might not have. If she pulled up into some of the side roads that let up into the dry grassy hills that loomed darkly in the distance, there was better chance she would live to wake up and come up with a better plan later.

"Cash or charge?" The annoyed clerk asked the question for the second time. Meagan blinked in the glare of the yellow-green cast of the fluorescent. She opened her purse. Not much there but she didn't dare use her credit cards or A.T.M.

She took out a twenty and paid for the gas, along with a box of processed donuts and milk. It was a poor dinner, but given that it was the only dinner, lunch, and breakfast she'd had that day, she thought it would taste fine.

While she was getting her change, she looked to left side and saw that a man was staring at her. He was scrubby looking, wearing a stained and worn fatigue jacket. That and the fact that she didn't like the look of him was all she really noticed. He had that sort of predatory look that most women fear to run into at 2 a.m. in the morning. She grabbed her change and quickly whipped around him, looking down to avoid his eyes.

"Hey," he called back. She picked up the pace, ignoring him. "You forgot your food."

This nearly made her cry. She glanced back. The surly clerk was glaring at her, as if her coming into the store had ruined his miserable life. The man was just staring. He didn't look like someone who was part of her immediate problem. But then, how could one tell? He had long brown hair, and was badly in need of a shave. Meagan didn't like the looks of him one bit.

But she was hungry. So, she stepped back, and grabbed her donuts with a quick snap of her arm and walked out.

"Your milk."

But she ignored him. It was enough to get out. The air outside stank of spilled oil and gas fumes. There was ground fog everywhere, soaking up the lights so much that they seemed to bleed into the fog and then dissipate without much effect. Her car was wet and her hand slipped on the nozzle as she started to pump in her ten dollars worth. She tore open the donut box with a dirty wet hand and started to eat a donut, stuffing it in her face whole. It was dry and she wish she hadn't forgotten her milk. She eyed the store but didn't want to go in while that man was there. She kept a close lookout in case he, or anyone else, came up to her.

The strange man stepped into view off to her right. To say he frightened her was stating it mildly, appearing as he did out of nowhere. He popped her milk down on the hood and she spat out a donut.

"How the fuck!" she choked.

He nodded to the milk. "Something wrong? You seem in an awful hurry."

She shook her head, but didn't take the milk. She reached into her purse, put her hand on the nickel-plated gun. Without bullets, it wouldn't do much good, but he didn't know that. But then, was it worth the chance? What if he called her bluff? The man's eyes followed her hand to her purse. Thinking better of it, he didn't look the type after all, she reached in, grabbed a couple bills and change floating at the bottom, and handed it to him, realizing he was probably after a handout.

"It's all I have," she told him. Then for some reason, she added, "I'm sorry." She regretted having said it. She thought it made her sound weak.

"I don't need money," he told her. "I could use a ride, though. Where are you going?"

"I, uh, I can't," was all she said. He looked like he didn't believe her. "I live nearby and my husband is expecting me."

The man stepped back and examined her Nevada plates. He leaned forward to whisper to her but she backed off, holding her gun tight. The fear in her eyes made him stop. He stared at her, then at the purse. She wasn't sure if he guessed she was holding a gun, or if he was thinking of robbing her. She looked back toward the diner. Just her luck that most of the truckers were pulling out.

Just then a van pulled into the station. Four men disgorged out of it. Meagan's heart dropped. They were carrying machine pistols and shotguns, and they scanned around, not seeing well in the thick fog either. They saw Meagan's car and pointed. The ratty man, seeing the look in Meagan's eyes, whirled around. He ducked and seeing that Meagan was remaining standing like a frozen mannequin, he kicked her feet out from under her just as a round of bullets whipped through her windshield, making a neat line of holes before the whole thing shattered.

Meagan rolled and looked around. The man crawled past her on all fours, heading for some derelict cars parked on the side lot waiting for scrap. Not having a plan, she decided to crawl after him, trying to ignore the rocks and gravel cutting into her knees. He rolled into a hollow. So did she. He peeked up. So did she. The clerk peeked out to see what was going on, but then quickly ducked back in. Just not fast enough. A quick blast from a shotgun took most of his head off and he went down into a bloody mess. People in the diner started screaming and one of the men with the machine pistol blew out their windows to shut them up. A trucker popped out with a pistol and started firing back, but only got a lacing of bullets in his gut for the effort.

Meagan turned to crawl away, maybe run out into the darkness, hoping to get lost in the fog. But the moon was mostly full, and Meagan thought she'd probably glow, absolutely glow in the dark in her green summer dress. Better to keep put from now. She thought about the ratty homeless guy. He'd obviously had shitty luck of late, and it wasn't getting better as he was now mixed up in her mess. This man, ignoring her, took something out of his jacket. He yanked on it and Meagan saw he was holding a iridescent pearl coloured hand grenade with a gold pin, surprise, surprise. Just when a trio of the men with from the van were approaching, he tossed it and ducked. She did the same. It exploded in a light so brilliant, Meagan saw it through her eyelids. She saw it even though she had her face covered and was staring at the ground. She heard terrible screaming, not something like she'd ever heard, though she'd heard her share of screaming. It was more like a sound an animal maybe, but no animal she knew, might make. But it wasn't really animal either and hearing it made her spine feel like it was melting. She realized then she'd messed her panties and dress.

Feeling too scared to be embarrassed, she glanced up. The grenade had blown the skin right off the men. They could be seen as distinct bloody messes. This made her start to wretch. They were smoking in the light as if giving off vapors. Then they started to move, snarling, making the same sounds they'd made before. They couldn't possibly be, but they were alive.

Glancing at her unexpected savior, she noted that he'd charged forward and grabbed one of their guns. When the bloody man that should have been dead tried to grab him, he kicked it, so hard in fact that he man's head caved in. But that didn't stop him from moving. Meagan wretched. There were gun shots from the store. She figured the homeless guy was getting iced by Pestanado's goon. But the gunfire continued for some time. Rambo, or whoever he was, was putting up a great fight from the sounds of it.

Meagan started to get that ice water chill down her back, which told the part of her that hadn't shut down that she was about to get a panic attack.

"Don't freeze up, don't freeze up," she kept mumbling to herself.

Taking advantage of the gun battle, she started to crawl back to her car, hoping it was in decent enough shape to survive. The burned bodies of the hitmen were rolling around. She tried not to look but had to when one snarled and snatched out at her. She couldn't help but look as she avoided his grasp. His yellow eyes were staring at her. They were slitted, like a snake's and she noticed that his hand appeared scaly also. Those eyes, they were probably some wild contacts. Hit men were a bunch of nuts these days. Not like the pros of old school. Still, those eyes...

"Don't look at it!" The homeless guy had come back and yanked her clear. She gave a start. It was hard to tear herself away from those eyes. Then she saw the forked tongue dart out. Freak! He was into body piercings too. Pestanado was really scrapping the bottom with these shits, she thought.

The guy pulled her around the side of the store and pulled her into a gremlin. It was orange and stank of fast food, probably from all the wrappers and cartons thrown into the back.

"Can you drive this?" he asked her, handing her the keys.

He didn't need to ask twice. She hopped in the driver's seat. But before the ratty homeless guy could get in, she locked the door on his side.

"Sorry," she yelled. She felt bad for about two seconds as she hit the gas and spun out back, going from reverse to drive and then screaming out of the gas station. She tore down the empty road as fast as the gremlin could go, which wasn't fast. She was doing maybe 65 tops. Still, she was away. She'd head for 205, maybe ditch the car in Tracy and then figure out what to do. On second thought, maybe get at least as far as Oakland and then...

The car bounced down as something heavy thudded onto the roof. She nearly lost control.

"AAAAAGHAAH!" she shrieked when a face appeared upside down in front of her. It was that homeless freak. Somehow, he'd managed to jump on the hood. He must've been riding up there for miles. Having a guy hanging on your hood was a guaranteed flag for cops and concerned motorists. She had half a thought to shake him, but he had saved her life. She reluctantly pulled over.

He jumped down nice as anyone could please. Her jaw dropped. In each hand, he was holding her milk and donuts.

_And before you ask, no, that wasn't the Holy Hand-grende of Antioch ;-)_

**story by Solanio**


	3. Morality Play

Meagan walked out of the bathroom, rubbing her hair, glancing occasionally at the black-stained towel, black from the colour of her now short cropped hair. The man, he hadn't given her a name, was still dressed in his faded green jacket and worn jeans, having slept that way all night. He was watching T.V. with the sound turned off.

"What's on the tube?" Meagan asked.

He didn't even acknowledge her. He was watching cartoons, _Yogi the Bear_. Meagan thought of Jimmy. He liked cartoons. She wondered if he was watching any right at that moment, before going to school. She imagined him watching the same cartoon, the shared images forming some sort of bond. Did he miss her, she wondered.

"What's your name, hon?" she asked him, pulling her new clothes out of the bag and getting dressed just inside the bathroom. Energy, action, both good remedies for memories, she hoped.

The stranger didn't say anything. He'd paid for the room and for her new clothes, so he wasn't broke. But he wasn't much of a talker either. Maybe he was just the strong, silent type. Or more likely, he wasn't interested in her. She wasn't the hot thing she'd once been, which sort of made her feel at ease a bit since she didn't get that predatory vibe from men the way she used to. Still, given what she'd gone through of late, about everyone made her feel scared.

"You have a scar on your chest."

"Well, the zombie finally speaks." She came out wearing a grey sweatshirt and jeans. "In case you didn't notice, it's more than a scar. I had cancer. They had to take it off."

"I'm sorry," he said. "You've had a lot of pain in your life."

She laughed, but then caught herself. He seemed so sincere when he said it.

"Yeah," she nodded. She ran another towel over her hair, getting it dry.

She continued to watch him. She was most drawn to the way he smelled, and to his face. His smell was peculiar, but not at all unpleasant. It reminded her most of the way Jimmy smelled when he was a baby. The stranger seemed to have something of that same innocent quality, or so he seemed until she remembered the strange hand grenade and how the stranger had charged into battle.

"Did you fight in the war?"

"Yes."

She kept staring at his face. It wasn't unpleasant, but it bothered her that he didn't blink. She stared at him some time, not taking her eyes off his face. Her own eyes started to water. She couldn't stand it.

"So, was that Desert Storm?"

"No, I fought in the First War."

Meagan thought a bit. "Um, you're not old enough." She said this gently in case he started getting all crazy on her. "My great-grandfather fought in that war."

"Yes, Michael Patrick O'Neill. He was maimed at Belleau Wood. Not much use to your great-grandmother after that. He came home neither man, nor dead, just somewhere in between. He had lost the battle of the bottle before we found him. We only just managed to save him. He served us well."

Meagan scowled. She hadn't known her great-grandfather, but her Da had called him Grandpa Pat. Meagan felt something at the edge of her mind. It was sort of like when she was a kid, seeing imaginary things, making up stories. Or were they stories?

"You remind me of him," the man said. "You can call me, Vargas."

"You can call me a cab," Meagan told him. "Look, I'm sorry I got you into my mess. And I appreciate your saving my life from those goons. But I'm tired of this voodoo show. You are freaking me out and are in need of help. I hope you get it but for both our sakes, maybe just let us forget we ever met, OK?"

"I need you to drive me to Santa Cruz. They're expecting me."

"Meagan took out the Gremlin's car keys and tossed them to the stranger. "Take it."

"The stranger didn't bother to catch the keys. They rested on his chest. "I need you to take me there. We can leave after breakfast. You should get something to eat."

"I'm not taking you to Santa Cruz," she told him.

Vargas got up. "Let's go. Take your things. We can leave after you eat."

He picked up her purse and offered it to her. She shook her head.

He pulled her hand to him and put her purse on her arm. He arm was like steel, the way it grabbed her. Not like flesh, but hard and unyielding, and cold, cold like stone.

"You have nowhere else to go."

Smug bastard. But it was the truth.

He turned off the T.V. and walked out the door. She could see him waiting for her. She thought a bit. Santa Cruz? She'd looked it up on the roadmap she'd found in the car. It was someplace to start. But damn him, Vargas or whatever his real name was, he was so damn smug, and weird. Still, without money, or contacts, she didn't many other, or any other options that wouldn't end her back in Alberto Pestanado's lap.

She joined him outside, donning a cheap pair of butterfly sunglasses. "You like pancakes?" she asked him.

story by Solanio


End file.
